


London Rain / Full Stop

by irisbleufic



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-05-01
Updated: 2005-05-01
Packaged: 2018-01-02 09:34:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1055222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tea, rain, and dithering semantics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	London Rain / Full Stop

**Author's Note:**

> My second foray into GO writing, still finding my feet with them.
> 
> (Originally written and posted to LJ in early 2005.)

 

 

**London Rain**

Under most circumstances, Crowley considers rain a grave inconvenience. Stylish hair and fine tailored jackets aren't made for wearing in inclement weather, and, as they are essentially parts of him, whereas rain is not, said inclement weather is on the wrong side of the proverbial fence.  On this particular day, it happens to be pouring.

Crowley hisses as he passes a flimsy newsstand, snatching a copy of the _Times_ from under the sodden proprietor's nose.  It isn't one of Aziraphale's umbrellas, but it will get him back to the Bentley— _the Bentley_!  Crowley breaks into a run, several city blocks passing much more quickly than they ought to, but passers-by don't notice.

The car is soaked, and there's not much for it until Crowley rounds the corner and waves one frantic hand to initiate a miracle. Oblivious to the car's existence, the rain ceases to touch it.

Driving is far preferable to walking, especially when mortals aren't likely to be paying attention to much beyond the sphere of their besieged windshields and back windows.  Crowley tosses his sunglasses onto the passenger's seat and dries himself, but he's still uncomfortable.  The Bentley screeches into the street, chilled and cranky.

Not that there's anything wrong with water.  Water is all fine and good, especially since it covers so much of the planet, but still.  The invasion of water in such a ruinous fashion never, in Crowley's opinion, served much purpose.  Hadn't anyone written Upstairs about the virtues of plant misters? Probably not, he decides, shoving a tape into the Blaupunkt.  He curses, thumping the steering wheel.  It's Handel.

Aziraphale doesn't think about plants.  He tends to give Crowley's verdant menagerie confused looks, if he even bothers to look at all.  He has, therefore, no right to go complaining about Crowley's general disregard for books as an extinct species.

Rain is coming down in buckets by the time he reaches the shop.  He wishes he could convince Aziraphale to convert that useless storage space out back into a garage, but his suggestions always fall on selectively deaf ears.  He occupies his usual spot in front, fashioning a roof over his head, then kills both the ignition and Handel, hoping that over the next couple of weeks the tape will have acquired some sense. He uses the _Times_ as an umbrella as he crosses the sidewalk.

The sign says _CLOSED_ , but Crowley isn't inclined to agree.  There's been something wrong with the bell lately; perhaps the dust has clogged it up at last.  It announces his arrival with a pathetic, reverberating _plink_.

"You're early," Aziraphale says conversationally, his voice muffled in the back room.

"Yes, well, I doubt you would have stayed out in that, either," Crowley says, ignoring yet another sign— _NO CUSTOMERS BEYOND THIS POINT_.  He is, pointedly, not a customer, except on rare occasions when Aziraphale is too stubborn to admit to the need for income.  Crowley must have bought the same book a dozen times over.

Aziraphale is at the table, leafing through a publication that Crowley doesn't recognize.  There are baffling columns of numbers, so he can only assume it's some kind of price guide, which, given Aziraphale's habits, is a rather useless accoutrement about the shop.  The angel's hair is wavier than usual, having picked up the humidity.

Crowley slumps into the chair across from him, shrugging his jacket off in disgust.

"The tea's not quite ready," Aziraphale murmurs, rising, putting the magazine aside.

"Waiting won't kill me," Crowley says, and he's not sure whether the sound Aziraphale makes en route to the kitchenette is a snort of derision or one of laughter.

"Of course not, but understand, when you said five, I was _holding_ you to—"

"It's four-fourty, angel," Crowley mutters, kicking off his boots. "Deal with it."

The sound of vigorous teaspoon-stirring clinks to a halt.  "I beg your pardon?" 

"Never mind," Crowley says, elbows on the table.  "Extra sugar, would you?"

"My dear, there's no other way," Aziraphale says with gentle humor in his voice, wandering back in with two cups of tea.  He sets one down in front of Crowley, then resumes his seat, ignoring the price guide.  He takes a sip, looking worried.

"Did you have an unpleasant—"

"No," Crowley says sharply, wrapping both hands around his teacup, "but if I had, what should it matter?  As if they _encourage_ me going around being pleasant?"

"For certain definitions of pleasant," Aziraphale says with a sigh, pale eyes drifting to study the wall.  "I was merely asking if your day had gone all right."

Crowley chokes mid-sip, sputtering, and sets the cup down.  He's still not used to this.

"What about you, eh?  Bloody bracing day for running a book shop, isn't it?"

Aziraphale looks at him again, brow creased.  "Now, dear boy, that's hardly—"

"Just asking how your day's been," Crowley says, sarcastic, feeling vaguely guilty.

"Nothing extraordinary, if you must know," Aziraphale sighs, but his smile has returned.  "This rather insistent chap wanted to know whether I happened to have any first editions any _stranger_ scriptures in my personal collection, heretics and crackpots, preferably American.  I told him I'd see what I could do.  I wish you had been here; he was interested in that stunning piece of work you incited in that Smith fellow."

"I had nothing to do with that," Crowley objects, swilling his tea.  "He was a little too fond of the drink, if you ask me, so that dreck about it being prohibited, in that went, and later on, they were just ripe for the picking, so why not throw in polygamy?"

"Perhaps you'd like to meet him next time," Aziraphale says, finishing his tea.  "I don't doubt you'd keep his interest, bar actually producing a manuscript."

"Lossst, all lost," Crowley says to his tea, then slides his cup across the table when he's finished.  "Is that a _referral_ , angel?" he asks, smirking.

Aziraphale gathers up the cups, bustling off to the kitchenette.  "Of course not," he says, raising his voice above the running water.  "It was only a suggestion."

"Then your suggestions are suspect," Crowley says, tipping his chair, feeling much more relaxed.  "I mean by your standards.  By mine, that's another story.  Let's just say I was almost proud of you for a minute there.  Unless we have him already—which, from the sound of things, might not be inaccurate.  Have you eaten?"

"No," Aziraphale says, turning off the tap.  He comes in with his sleeves rolled up and a tea towel clutched in both hands, and Crowley forgets that he was thinking of dinner.

"Neither have I," Crowley replies distractedly, drying the angel's hands for him and vanishing the towel.  "Not strictly necessary, but I thought…"

Aziraphale's lips are warm and soft, and Crowley sighs, wrapping his arms around the angel's neck.  He lets himself be pulled from the chair, and Aziraphale's hands are welcome against his cheeks and in his hair. It's the very opposite of rain.  Hair was made for touching, and fine jackets didn't harm one in the looks department.  Not that Aziraphale had ever been particularly interested in the latter.  He could be counted on to give kisses like this whether Crowley was wearing one or not.

"My dear," Aziraphale murmurs against Crowley's mouth, "you've caught a chill."

Tea is nice, if Crowley takes a moment to admit it, but bed is nicer, with worn cotton old sheets and Aziraphale's hideous taste in quilts. Doing this with the covers off is far preferable, but this is not an ordinary day, and Aziraphale is still shy about things that involve Crowley keeping his eyes open, which is pretty much everything.

Snaking a hand under the covers and across Aziraphale's flushed chest, Crowley feels heat all through his skin, comfort blooming to the rhythm of rain.

 

**Full Stop**

The snow catches them by surprise, falling in loose, delicate flakes that remind Aziraphale of drifting feathers.  He turns up his face and watches intently, slowing his pace.  Soon, the sidewalks will be slippery, and he'll have to be on the lookout.

"What're you stopping for?" Crowley asks, already snappish.  "This is the last time I let you decide we're walking, understood?  If I'd known about the weather reports—"

"They weren't calling for it," Aziraphale says, following a snowflake's progress to the pavement.  "Lovely, don't you think?  It's a shame it won't stay.  Much too early."

"Oh, it's a shame all right," Crowley mutters, and suddenly Aziraphale's feet no longer want to keep him standing.  "Of course," he adds, catching hold of Aziraphale's startled grip on his arm, "It does have certain advantages.  Forget your boots, angel?"

"Very funny," Aziraphale says, determined to neither look at him, nor let go.

Crowley quickens his pace, dragging Aziraphale with him.  There are disturbing similarities between the demon's walking and driving patterns, most notably his inability to slow down for any reason whatsoever.  They narrowly miss knocking into a woman carrying twice her own weight in shopping bags, and Aziraphale surreptitiously heals a bruised toe that had the misfortune of being in Crowley's path.  When they reach the next corner, Aziraphale reins Crowley in with all his might, heart hammering as a double-decker bus roars past.  The driver hadn't even seen them.

Crowley lowers his glasses, revealing poisonous yellow eyes.  It isn't the _look_ that stops Aziraphale's heart, though.  It's more that irritation is written in every line of Crowley's face, as few as they are, and that he's never perfected the art of scowling.  The last time that Aziraphale told him he wasn't properly terrifying, Crowley had sulked for a week.  It's also that his hair is windblown, damp and glistening with flakes that fall by the second, then vanish, gleaming streaks down his brow.

Aziraphale doesn't like miracling things for himself, but for Crowley, that's acceptable.

Crowley glances up, studying the umbrella.  "A bit small, don't you think?"

"It's all I have," Aziraphale says, annoyed.  "If you'd rather it were still collecting dust back in the shop," he says, starting to let go of Crowley's arm, "I suppose I could—"

Crowley hisses something under his breath, but he winds his arm around Aziraphale's waist and wraps his free hand around Aziraphale's on the umbrella.

Home is Crowley's flat for tonight, as much as it can be.  Crowley makes Aziraphale shake out the umbrella before even _thinking_ about bringing it inside, then decides it has to stay on the doorstep.  Aziraphale, in an uncertain attempt to be whimsical, asks whether Crowley had considered its feelings beforehand.  The demon just looks at him, hand impatient on the doorknob, looking wetter and testier than ever.

"Come _inside_ , angel."

There are practicalities to be seen to, which Aziraphale watches with great interest, unwinding his scarf.  Crowley is careless about his boots, letting them land wherever he kicks them, and his coat slips off the hook.  Aziraphale picks it up and places it beside his own, and he can hear Crowley rummaging in the kitchen and running water.

"Turn the heat on, will you?  It's bloody freezing."

Aziraphale remembers where the controls are, mostly because Crowley has shown him repeatedly.  The dial on the wall is simple, once you know where to find it.  Aziraphale contemplates Crowley's unusual penchant for catching a chill.  He's too agitated for tea; there'd be no getting him to sit still for it.  Aziraphale smiles.

He finds Crowley with the plants.  The demon is misting them with a look of fierce concentration, which is, Aziraphale has to admit, more effective than his scowl.  Perhaps he ought to tell Crowley to go with that.  In the past, if he let himself think about it, Aziraphale had to admit to small amounts of jealousy concerning all those hostas and African violets and gorgeous miniature trees.  If you didn't count the tossing-out-stragglers thing, you could almost say that Crowley loved them.

Aziraphale doesn't mean to clear his throat.

Crowley straightens up, plant mister falling to his side. 

"Er?" he asks, unexpectedly self-conscious.

"You wouldn't want to over-water them, dear," Aziraphale says, looking at the floor.

"Until you win Soho Gardener of the Month," Crowley says, raising the mister to a waist-high ficus with a braided trunk, "keep your advice to yourself."

Aziraphale finds himself unable to keep from laughing, and Crowley is delightfully shocked when he takes the mister away and makes it disappear.

"Hey!  That was—" Crowley stops mid-sentence, looking irritated again, and apparently decides that he'd rather be kissing Aziraphale, which is just as well, because the plants wouldn't have been impressed.

"Mmm," Aziraphale hums, opening his mouth.  Crowley's hair is dreadfully tangled, so he works his fingers through the wet strands, easing the pressure of his mouth a bit when Crowley flinches and sighs against it.

"Vengeance," he says clearly, words pressed to the corner of Aziraphale's mouth.  "This is for last week and the ruined covers, isn't it?"

"Perhaps," Aziraphale says, liking the way the deflected _no_ bounces to the back of his mind and dissipates.  "Besides, I thought we might ruin yours."

Crowley makes an indignant noise, but it's lost in another kiss.  In no time at all, they're on his bed anyway, and Aziraphale insists that vanishing their clothes is cheating.  Crowley says he doesn't care and, for _anybody's_ sake, get _over_ here.

Aziraphale keeps his eyes open until he can't any longer, until Crowley's touch, before then as light as snow, grows heavy, until his body blankets them in bliss.


End file.
